


a spring christmas

by treacherousdoctors



Category: Solitaire - Alice Oseman
Genre: Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:27:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28251630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treacherousdoctors/pseuds/treacherousdoctors
Summary: after last year, the springs have decided not to host the rest of the family for christmas.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	a spring christmas

**Author's Note:**

> this might be messy because i wrote it while very ill but ! idk i just wanted to give the springs a Nice Quiet Christmas™, and i’ve just finished rereading solitaire so i kinda wanted to do it from tori’s pov? and do a little bit of thinking abt how she might’ve started to feel post-solitaire? idk it’s messy but ! hey ho :^) prompt word was “family”

It’s a strange feeling, not being woken by Oliver on Christmas morning. This is the first year since he’s been old enough to walk that he hasn’t overtaken my space like a whirlwind. I’m not sure why - maybe it’s that he’s finally noticed that it annoys me, or that being eight is the start of the portion of your life where sleep is more exciting than presents. Either way, it’s 7:24 before he bounds through my door.

“Tori!”

“G’morning.”

I’m not the chirpiest, but I’m trying not to be as bitter as I usually am in the morning. I’m really, really trying this year.

I don’t care about myself that much - I haven’t in a long time. I just want my family to have a good day, without me ruining anything. That’s all I want this Christmas.

We’re doing things more casually this year. 

Charlie’s therapist, Geoff, suggested to my parents after last year that it might be good for Charlie’s recovery to make Christmas Day a low-key affair instead of having the whole family round for a meal. And  _ my  _ therapist, a guy named Stu that my parents pushed me to see after everything that happened in January, agreed. Our parents had to go in for sessions with each of them a few times in November to put together a plan. I don’t know exactly what was said, but I  _ do  _ know that Mum and Dad sat the three of us down a couple of weeks ago to say we wouldn’t be hosting this year.

We’re seeing everybody for boxing day, at my English grandparents’ house, but the 25th is reserved for the five of us. Already, tensions are lower than they were a year ago. 

Charlie follows Oliver into the room, picking him up and resting him on his hip. It’s almost funny, with how tall Oliver’s been getting lately.

“Mum and Dad are up.”

“And Father Christmas came!”

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

They traipse out of my room and I roll out of bed, stretching my arms behind my back until my shoulders click. I slip out of my pyjamas and into leggings and a Christmas jumper - obnoxiously bright, but a gift from Nick’s mum that I feel I should probably get some use out of.

I’m not sure whether to bother brushing my hair before I head down. I don’t  _ need  _ to look good for the comfy-clothes, present-opening stage of the day, but part of me wants to make an effort just to have my parents feel like shirking tradition for the sake of my mental health is actually working.

To be honest, this year has actually been kind of good for me. It started out badly, obviously, but it turns out that letting people into your life, getting therapy, and putting effort into being less of a total wanker does make some kind of change. I’m still a bitter, pessimistic arsehole - that’s a part of me forever - but I’ve been less inclined towards taking it out on other people. 

When I make it to the living room, everyone is waiting for me. Oliver is sat under the tree, present in hand, one finger slid under a flap of wrapping paper & practically vibrating in anticipation. 

“She’s here!” He screeches, ripping open the gift. I imagine he’s been waiting almost ten minutes for me to get here, so I don’t bother calling him out for being rude.

“Merry Christmas.” I murmur.

“Morning!” Dad chirrups, smiling broadly at me. “Merry Christmas, love.”

“Merry Christmas, Tori.” Mum smiles.

I can’t quite figure out if we’re happy yet. Oliver is, of course, but he’s really too young not to be. And Dad is grinning, but I can never tell how much of that is a fake-it-til-you-make-it type of deal. We really aren’t a particularly expressive family.

Oliver picks up a couple of presents from under the tree, one for Charlie and one for me, and throws them in our direction. With a conspicuous cough, Mum encourages him to pass one to her as well.

All in all, the present opening takes about an hour. We take it fairly slowly, chatting in between gifts and taking it in turns. It almost feels like being a kid again - taking guesses what’s inside each package and giving ourselves time to appreciate each one. It’s strange, really. Old enough that I’m not desperate to tear into everything as quickly as possible, but not quite past the point of enjoying it.

I got a violin. Stu suggested trying to pick up a hobby and, after Michael tried and failed to get me liking ice skating, I thought it might be nice to get back into something older. I started taking lessons again in April and, while I’m no virtuoso, it turns out I retained a decent amount, enough for my parents to think it might be worth getting me my own to practice outside of lessons.

When we finish, I head upstairs. I have some sheet music of a few Christmas carols that I decide to practice for a while before lunch, while Charlie plays with Oliver and his new tractors.

Around 1, I realise I should probably change out of my pyjamas. 

I’ve got some nice clothes ready. They really don’t seem to suit me much - I’m not designed for nice-ness. It’s a plum purple blouse and a grey pleated skirt, nothing special, but when I put it on and glance in the mirror I realise I look  _ so  _ like my mum. Inescapably. I don’t always notice, but today it’s staring me in the face. A year ago that might have made me want to die. Today, it’s just confusing. 

The table is set when I get downstairs, and my dad seems surprised he hasn’t had to call for me.

“You look lovely, Tori.”

“Thanks.” I mumble in response. I manage a weak smile.

Dinner goes okay. This year there’s no interrogation, nobody analysing anyone’s plate or begging for gossip. We just chat as though it’s any other day, but with silly paper hats and Oliver reading out the same joke over and over again until someone laughs (somewhat hard to fake, given the calibre of humour in Christmas crackers). We survive it, though, which is nice.

The light fades outside and we settle in front of the telly. There’s no Doctor Who special this year, but Dad puts on an old one ( _ A Christmas Carol,  _ one of Oliver’s favourites). Mum and Dad curl up together in an armchair while the three of us commandeer the sofa - Oliver in my lap, and Charlie with his legs up under him, surreptitiously texting Nick. It’s unusually calm for us, feeling a world away from the usual 4pm grand-parental argument and interrogation from my aunt. No crying babies, no quarrelling adults, just the five of us and a comfortingly familiar TV show.

I love my family. I do. It isn’t always easy to remember, but I do. This Christmas was good. I really, really hope that the next one is even better.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope this was ok !
> 
> as always, my tumblr is @charliespringverse if you want to chat/request/whatever :^)


End file.
